


Daisies

by orphan_account



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 06:53:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn't ask about the drell she mentions offhandedly in stories even though the spike of emotion in her voice burns bright and desperate. He asks how her quarian friend is, if the turian has given in and accepted forgiveness from his traitor. He asks about the tank-born. And, her mouth curves up, slight and delicate, as she talks about her old crewmates and as she repeats the words she's memorized from the messages. "I wish I could be there," she'll sometimes sigh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daisies

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: "[i think i finally broke her](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kdM5TwIWYWo)" stars (hum)

She learns the name of every plant she can. She sorts through pictures of flowers—toxic and nontoxic—and fruit trees and crops and pictures of elaborate gardens to those that can exist quietly with the endless rain of Kahje. She learns new things, teaches herself new words, writes messages to Rannoch and Palaven and Tuchanka and Earth, apologizes for how quickly she left after waking, and despite the way her now fragile fingers twitch for her sidearm she learns to settle into the lull of peace. Javik insists to her that, of all the beings in the galaxy, she deserves every moment of the quiet.

Shepard always smiles at him, the curve of her lips slight and gentle in a way he has never been privy to before. Her eyes seem to soften and lose their hard edge, even the fine lines around her frowning mouth seem to lessen when she smiles. “You've earned it too,” she'll say sometimes before returning to her books, burying her nose into pages dedicated to flowers and creeping red stemmed vines that will often grow upon the walls of houses.

She walks barefoot on the days the soles of her feet do not ache or if the pain in her knees isn't too sharp. She wriggles her toes against the polished wood of the floors and stands until her legs tremble and she has to stumble into the nearest chair. Javik admonishes her every time, repeats that he will not help her if she breaks a leg. She only smiles and reaches for the book nearest to her—sometimes it's one of her plant books, sometimes it's one of the hardbound books of poetry that Lieutenant-Commander Williams sent her. And, sometimes, it's one of his notebooks filled with pages and pages of fumbled Prothean letters, bits of poetry, a line from a childhood story he can vaguely recall telling a child, a relative, he knew. She'll trace her fingers over the lines, over the hasty sketches of skylines and scratched out words. She never asks him about the names listed in corners and margins. She doesn't ask about the Prothean woman he writes about in a desperate attempt to remember her face—her _name_.

She asks him about the Hanar instead as she leafs through the bound pages.

She doesn't ask him why he buys paper. Why he doesn't type into a datapad. She asks him about the drell, about their funerals. She starts to ask if he's seen the boy named Kolyat before looking away and curling her thin arms around her knobby knees (he can hear her choke back tears as he watches her run her hands over her shaved and scarred head).

He doesn't ask about the drell she mentions offhandedly in stories even though the spike of emotion in her voice burns bright and desperate. He asks how her quarian friend is, if the turian has given in and accepted forgiveness from his traitor. He asks about the tank-born. And, her mouth curves up, slight and delicate, as she talks about her old crewmates and as she repeats the words she's memorized from the messages. “I wish I could be there,” she'll sometimes sigh. He doesn't mention that she could go to Rannoch, she could flee to Palaven, or seek refuge on Tuchanka with the tank-born and Urdnot Wrex. From the way she looks at him, eyes soft and swimming with emotion that Javik will not acknowledge until it passes her lips, he knows she's glad he doesn't say that she could leave without a glance back.

Because she would.

She would be gone before the next morning if he told her to... look elsewhere.

“I think I'll plant a garden,” she says one day, her knee almost brushes his when she shifts on the creaky couch they're sitting on. Javik doesn't look up from his datapad, Shepard doesn't look up from her flower book. “It would be nice to have something to do.” He sees her fingers twitch out of the corner of his eyes and he cannot imagine the newly healed digits wrapped around her shotgun. “Y'know,” her voice is beginning to trail off, “keep my hands busy.”

She swallows.

Javik looks up in time to see the first tears roll down her cheeks.

He takes her hand.

He can feel new, familiar names along the tip of his tongue; and, he feels pain. There's a persistent, throbbing in his left knee and his right arm, from the wrist to shoulder, never stops hurting. And there's an ache in his chest—a weight. A weight that makes every breath ragged and sharp and... he cannot believe the deep, echoing ache that rattles in his lungs.

“Shepard.”

 _I'm sorry,_  her words almost roll past his lips.

“There is no reason for apologies.”

He does not let go of her hand.

The drell's name rises, unbidden and catches in the back of his throat.

Shepard recoils; but he still feels the scream of pain that lances through her at the sudden motion. He flexes his fingers. He can still feel the curl of her fingers along his palm and the imprint of her thumb against the back of his hand. She does not apologize, but the word hangs heavy in the suddenly still air of their shared house.

“Words are not needed, Shepard.”

He can hear her muffled sobs.

“If you want to be alone—”

“Stay,” she whispers. Her voice is quiet, broken. It's a question. An invitation. She's afraid she has caused offense. “I could use the company.”

Javik nods. He watches her from the corner of his eyes. She uncurls herself slowly. He can see the shadows of scars wrapping up her delicate arms, the stiff pull to her muscles as she moves closer to him again. She does not reach for him. “Yes, Shepard.” He holds out his hand, palm up with wrist exposed; and, he can feel it, amidst the memories, the coming and going tide of pain and sorrow, there's a flicker; it's quiet and hopeful.

It's gentle enough to be the beginning curve of a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to write something w/ shep planting a garden on kahje and ended up with this, uh. not even sure what's up here.


End file.
